


break me down (if you're willing to build me up)

by unholyconfessions (orphan_account)



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: 1x20, Episode Related, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:31:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/unholyconfessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver’s changed, and Tommy’s changed a lot himself. That’s part of why he’s doing this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	break me down (if you're willing to build me up)

**Author's Note:**

> I just watched 1x20 and the amount of Tommy/Oliver feels was freaking unbearable. This ship needs to sail and here's my contribution. Not beta'd, so let me know if there's anything that needs fixing.
> 
> Rated Mature just to be safe, but it's PG stuff. Also, spoilers, I guess.
> 
> Enjoy and feedback is always appreciated!

The sound of the door slamming behind his back still echoes in his ears, shaking him to the core with every step forward, with every jagged breath. And it gets louder, more explosive, bombarding his thoughts with Laurel’s words and the image of Laurel’s eyes staring back at him, disappointment leaking down the length of her face, wetting her cheeks.

_I know that you’ve changed._

His keys roll in his palm, the metal cold against his warm skin, sending a shiver down his spine as his head falls against the door. God, he wants her. He still wants her. It doesn’t matter how many times he tries to convince himself otherwise, chanting it like a mantra to see if his body stops reacting to the slightest thought of her; he _loves_ her.

_You would never do this._

But he can’t do this. He can’t pretend to live in a fairytale. He can’t pretend he doesn’t _know_ , because he does. Laurel loves him, but she’s _in_ love with Oliver. And, in the back of his mind, he’s known for a long time. He swears to God, he tried to ignored it every time she pressed her lips to his, wrapped her arms around his back with Oliver in her thoughts, but he couldn’t. It kept nudging him, pushing him closer to edge until—

Until this.

But he can’t do this. He can’t pretend to live in a fairytale. He can’t pretend he doesn’t know, because he does. Laurel loves him, but she’s in love with Oliver. And, in the back of his mind, he’s known for a long time. He swears to God, he tried to ignored it every time she pressed her lips to his, wrapped her arms around his back with Oliver in her thoughts, but he couldn’t. It kept nudging him, pushing him closer to the edge until—

_I guess I haven’t changed as much as we all thought, then._

Stepping back into the mausoleum that is his dad’s house doesn’t make it any better. A weight crashes hard against his chest, catching his lungs in a tight hold until it’s hard to breathe, and his fingers twitch as his bags drop to the ground. The thud resonates into the empty house.

The walk to his room isn’t easier. There’s still a breath knotted halfway through his throat when he makes his way in, head tilted up to stare at the absurdly high ceiling and prevent the tears from coming. He’s had enough of this—if this doubt, of this lingering feeling that he’ll always be second best to Oliver.

He kind of gets Laurel’s newfound fascination with the Hood, even if he doesn’t agree with Oliver’s methods, and if he didn’t know better, if he didn’t know she’s just falling deeper in love with Oliver, it wouldn’t be this crushing.

Oliver’s changed, and Tommy’s changed a lot himself. That’s part of why he’s doing this. He has to let go of her. He has to be _free_ of her. And he’ll relearn how to spend his nights without her head against his chest, her hand playing idly with the hairs on his forearm. He has to.

There’ll be painful gazes and unspoken words hanging in the air for a while, but he’s set on moving on from her. Maybe from Oliver, too, because Oliver’s just as lethal as Laurel. He makes Tommy feel just as misplaced as she does, like that piece of the puzzle that never quite fits. 

Oliver will keep on hunting down bad guys, on walking around with his bow and arrow, hiding his secret identity, and Tommy will dive head-first into this unknown future ahead of him. 

He doesn’t bother with a shower, or brushing his teeth, before kicking away at his shoes and letting his back connect to the mattress. He’s too tired for that. His mind too turbulent to even think about doing anything other than roll to the side and bury his head into a pillow, body splayed out across the bed. It smells of his own sweat and a hint of soap.

Tommy laughs into the pillowcase. _Thankfully_ not of Laurel, his brain fires at him as exhaustion begins to set in his bones. He only has enough strength to move an arm under his head before sleep hits him like lightning.

***

He has his eyes closed when the hairs on the nape of his neck stand to attention. He’s grown all too familiar with the almost imperceptible footsteps, with the cautious breathing of someone who doesn’t want to be noticed, not to acknowledge the presence in the room.

He’s hit with a whirlwind of anger and bittersweet humor, colliding against him over and over again, until his mouth curves up into an empty smile. He doesn’t move, except for the twitch of muscles in his back and arms, choosing to give Oliver the benefit of the doubt.

“I’m sorry,” is what Oliver says, after a minute too long, his voice as broken as it was back at his place. “I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

Tommy moves, then, propping himself up on his elbows to face the chair in the corner of his room, where Oliver is sitting. He draws on the moment to take in the sight of Oliver’s hand clutching at his knees, knuckles white, back too straight to be comfortable. He can’t say he’s surprised. That’s how Oliver seems to be ninety-percent of the time—always on alert, ready to snap at something. Ready to _kill_.

The thought makes the muscles in Tommy’s throat work around a groan, and he picks himself up, rubbing at his sleep-crusted eyes. He doesn’t answer, can’t answer for a while, until Oliver apologizes again and he can’t fight it:

“I don’t blame you,” he says, and it pains him to hear it out loud, because he knows this isn’t Oliver’s fault. He’s looking for someone to blame, but, right now, this person isn’t Oliver.

“Tommy—” his name slips past Oliver’s lips like a ghost, and he holds his hand up for a second. Oliver nods.

“I can’t live like this anymore. Not being tossed around between hating her and loving her. Hating—”

“—me.”

“Yeah.”

“Then don’t.”

The lines of Oliver’s shoulders smooth over, his fingers opening and closing around his knees, making Tommy want to run. Run as far as he can.

But he doesn’t.

“I don’t.”

Tommy casts a glance at the clock on his nightstand, out of sheer panic running through him, and he can see Oliver moving from his peripheral vision. He shuts his eyes, brow knitting together as the bed dips under their combined weight.

“I’m not going to take her from you,” Oliver says.

Tommy laughs, hand rubbing the stubble tracing his jawline, because _shit_. Oliver’s already done that. Intentionally or not, Laurel’s already his. “I don’t care.”

Oliver doesn’t point out the lie. Instead, his hand closes around Tommy’s thigh, fingers digging into his flesh for half a second before the heat is gone. Tommy turns to look at him.

That’s not the Hood sitting there. That’s not PTSD-Oliver. That’s not the guy with the stoic façade and the tense shoulders—no, that’s his best friend. That’s Oliver, right there, without reservations. 

“I do.” Oliver glances away, nodding at the wall. “I care.”

“I know.” And Tommy’s not sure what happened between saying that and trying to come up with something else, because he’s back to staring at Oliver’s face when Oliver gazes at him. His brain is stuck in a loop of, “I kn—”

Oliver steals the word away from him before he finishes, mouth pushing against his, lips slightly agape so they’re sharing the same desperate air. Tommy doesn’t want it, not with Oliver, never has—or maybe it’s been a long time coming. He can’t—

Can’t even begin to decide as Oliver’s hand comes to hold the side of his neck, thumb pressing against an artery threatening to burst. It’s born out of hope, hurt, maybe understanding, but it grows into something else, into _need_ for comfort.

“Oli—”

“Don’t,” Oliver says. “Just. Don’t.”

And Tommy lets it happen, no questions asked—at least not aloud, because his head sure is spiraling down a chasm of _what are we doing?_ and _we can’t, can we?_ and every other uncertainty that’s been building up between them since forever.

Oliver knocks the air out of him with another press of lips, this time more forceful, more urgent to get a taste of Tommy’s tongue. It’s unknown territory, for both of them, but it’s also home. 

Tommy fists the front of Oliver’s shirt, pulling, clutching, bringing them closer together, and he can taste Oliver’s smile, the sigh of relief that escapes their chests. They fumble with their clothes, hands pushing at shirts and undoing buttons on jeans, but Tommy doesn’t let go of Oliver’s mouth. Not until Oliver pushes the hem of his shirt up to his chin, and he pulls away to slip it over his head and watch Oliver do the same.

They’re not talking about it, not now and not later, but _goddammit_ , Oliver’s skin feels incredible against him as they tumble to the bed, both of Tommy’s hand holding Oliver’s head in place as Oliver’s hands shove at his jeans. He closes his teeth around Oliver’s bottom lip, lifting his hips to make things easier for Oliver, almost regretting his decision when their hips press together.

“Fuck,” he says around a gasp, rolling them around on the bed to get rid of any remaining piece of clothing. “Oliver, Oli—no one can know about this.”

Oliver chuckles, lips brushing up to his as he says, “Just another secret to keep.”


End file.
